


I Have You

by orphan_account



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Past Child Abuse, Trans Male Character, ill add more characters as I go, this is kinda sad so if youre not in the right mindset i wouldnt read
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:35:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21759919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The sky is grey and foreboding above the pine trees, the smell of oncoming rain lingers in the air. Something about this search-and-rescue has him suspicious.
Relationships: Micah Bell/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 18
Kudos: 39





	1. A Night (or two) In The Woods

**Author's Note:**

> So... this is a far cry from my last Morbell fic, which is just porn. But I wanted to take a stab at this story because it seemed interesting, and a cool insight into Micah.  
> Exclaimer: I'm not trans. I don't know how *exactly* trans people would've worked in 1899 or before, but I am doing some reading on it, bear with me. Just don't expect this to be 100% factually accurate, in case I fuck up.

The trot of hoof gallops echoed throughout the desolate forest of the Grizzlies West, the twisted and bare trees framed the grey and grim skies above. Arthur pulled his shotgun coat up around his nose, trying to warm his freezing face. Montana, poor girl, wasn’t doing any better, whinnying from the chilly weather all around and the snow coating her hooves. 

Of course goddamn Micah had to drag himself all the way out here, blabbing about how he was gonna convince the O’driscolls to make a truce. Personally, he thought the idiot was gonna get himself killed for better or worse. And of course, he was sent to scout out and find him or his remains. He hoped for the ladder. He didn’t even really know where he was besides what Dutch told him, “The West Grizzlies, Arthur, maybe up near Colter or something. As much as he was bragging about it, he didn’t exactly give specifics. Just go find him.” With that, he’d mounted up, put on his thickest winter coat, and made tracks up north. 

Deep hoof tracks in the beaten path veered harshly into the snowy woodland. “Maybe that’s him… or O’driscolls” he mumbled to himself, steering his steed into even more thick snow. The tracks led for over a mile, out into the most backwoods parts of the region. The air was completely still here, not a sound but the muffled thuds of his horses gallops. The treeline was more crowded, dead bushes and tree limbs everywhere. The utter silence was making him uneasy, made his ears hear things that weren’t there.

“Micah!” He waited a beat, “Micah Bell!” Again, nothing. Just the sensation that something was very off. In the distance, surrounded by dead foliage, a run-down shack caught his eye. Hoping to god he wouldn’t have to trudge any further he called out, “Micah Bell!” a moment passed, and the forest laid quiet. Well, goddamnit. He directed Montana up to the scrappy pile of planks, dismounting and ready to quit his search here. Hopefully Dutch would accept a simple “Couldn’t find him.”

He yelled again, “Micah! You down here?!” Unfortunately, when he crossed behind the spiderweb of rotted wooden slabs, Micah was there. Just not the way he should’ve been.

Beer and whiskey bottles surrounded the scene, some shattered and others half empty. Footprints of worn down boots trampled the snow, a small puddle of frozen blood, and there was Micah Bell. He was tied up to a worn down oak tree, hunched over, not too different from Kieran. Only, he was naked, and had obvious bruises all around his ankles and wrists. The ropes that bound him were chafing his pale skin to the point he was bleeding, and he appeared as if his whole body had been drenched to the bone before he was abandoned. If it wasn't for the shaky lifting of his head at his name being called, Arthur would've thought him dead. 

He stood there in shock for a full second, before stumbling his way over to his gang member. He didn’t know where to start. “Micah, uh-” no evidence of his clothing was around, not his coat, not his hat, not even his twin pistols were anywhere to be seen, and no Baylock was around either. Now that he was closer, so much so he could finally hear his airy and shuddery breathing, he looked ten times worse. His skin was bruised yellow in places like his hips and inner thighs, it looked like he’d been punched in the ribs too. His light hair was frozen, stiff and cold looking. He was shivering, shaking uncontrollably, and as Arthur used his knuckles to carefully raise his chin up, his cheeks bore frozen streaks of tears, eyes bloodshot and terrified, looking at him as if he were going to gut him. 

Cautious to not spook him, Arthur slowly unsheathed his hunting knife, and began sawing away at the coarse rope, “It’s ok Micah, it’s me, Arthur.” The sight of the blade made the other flinch, and he couldn't resist the feeling of sympathy washing over him. He disliked Micah, sure, but left out here to the vultures and wolves like this… it wasn't honorable.

He swiftly caught the man when he fell forward off the tree trunk, limbs as frozen as the icicles hanging from the trees. Numb fingers gripped his lapels, he looked down for a split second to make sure he hadn't dropped the knife too close to the other's bare foot, and… oh no. Oh no. "Uh…" he breathed, if the situation wasn't dire enough. The place in between his legs was flat and smooth, unlike himself and the other men he knew. The ice covered tuft of hair covered it, but Arthur saw. His chest were two soft mounds of fat and flesh, and if he was honest with himself, he probably wouldn’t have even noticed them in normal circumstances, they were so small.

In his bewildered staring, he was caught back into reality when he heard a few stuttering sobs bubble up from the other man, eyes still managing to shed hot tears despite how dry and tired they looked. The trembling only worsened, and from his cracked and cold lips Arthur could hear a hoarse "Please." Quickly as he could, he shrugged his heavy fur coat off, wrapping the hefty blue hide around his rescue. It was good the blonde was smaller, that way the fabric could huddle around his chin, hopefully warming him up a little quicker.

The call of his whistle was harsh and high against the quiet hum of winter wind, Montana’s hoofs thundering against the powdery snow, and he gently wrapped his arms around the other's shaking shoulders. He murmured reassuringly, "it'll be ok, you'll be ok Micah. I'll take ya back to Horseshoe, get you patched up.” He could see that the other man was ready to fall apart at the seams, arms hugged around himself underneath his coat, jaw clamped shut as to not let out anymore noise. That foriegn feeling of pity took him again, and out of what may have been chivalry or sympathy or both, he asked “Do you want me to carry you?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard, mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air, before nodding stiffly. Micah had anticipated the man to just throw him over his shoulder like he did the victims he hogtied. He was surprised again when Arthur leaned down to shove his arms underneath his knees, lifting him, adjusting him in his grip a bit, carrying him bridal-style over to his mare. If the cold air around him hadn’t stolen all his energy, he would’ve blushed. 

With a grunt, he was set onto Montana’s back, behind the saddle. As he mounted up, ordering her to ride hard, Arthur couldn’t help but think what exactly had happened back there. O’driscolls being cruel was one thing, they usually were, it was almost the norm except for Kieran. But why strip the man down? Why not just kill him, that seemed more inclined with what the opposing gang would do. Those thoughts were cut off when he felt Micah wrap his arms around his middle, feeling how much he was trembling against his back. It made his mind come around to an uncomfortable thought. Hopefully they hadn’t done anything… unsightly to the poor man.

He slowed to a trot now, finally out of the snow and into the pine trees. Now that he thought about it, maybe letting him get healed at Horseshoe was a bad idea. As much as he loved the gang, and knew they would care enough to try, he didn’t know how they would react to Micah’s… special case. He didn’t even know if Micah wanted him to, he imagined that with how distant the man already was in camp, combined with this? Being outed to the entire gang would only put him in a worse state of mind, make his attitude worse, god only knows what someone like Bill would say in the wake of that discovery. He coughed into his fist, “Hey, Micah?” He felt the weight of the other’s head lift off his right shoulder, looking up at him. “I know of a cabin up near here, we can go there instead of camp. I could head down to Valentine, get some medical supplies, come back and fix you up. That way… that way, the whole gang won’t know, ok? You keep your privacy.” 

The outlaw didn’t say anything at first, but gripped his waist tighter, and nodded against his back. As they rode a little further, the river gurgling softly beside the two, he heard a tiny and strained “thank you” before the log cabin peaked over the green hillside.

He’d known about this place, the little safehouse tucked away in a flourish of pines and bushes, for some time now. He tried to do this everytime the gang entered a new region, even though he knew it would anger the gang leader. He found little places, cleared out any squatters, and began stocking them up with supplies, food, things for emergencies. If he was separated from the gang one way or another, here was where he holed up to not draw any unwanted attention. If he had to be out for long periods of time, and needed some peace, here was where he came. He never told anyone, save for John. As much as he hated the fact that he had run off and left for an entire year, he’d told him that if he ever needed to be away, there was the place. 

It would prove a saving grace, except for the fact that the last time he’d been there he used up what little bandages he had to dress a heavy bullet wound.

“Woah, woah” he soothed, easing his horse into a full stop at the door. Slinging one of the man’s arms over his shoulders, he crept through the creaking door, hoping no one had come to rob. Thankfully, everything was where he left it, cans of whatever he’d bought stacked inside rickety cupboards, the blankets he’d collected folded and placed on the small corner bed, fireplace put out. The only thing different was the pile of discarded strawberry and peach cans in the far corner, like a badger dug it’s little claws into them trying to open them. “Damn Marston.”

He almost failed to notice how confused the other looked, eyes squinted and head cocked to the side slightly in semi-awe. “Yea, well, doesn’t hurt to be prepared for this sorta thing, Bell” he said, badly attempting to brush off his secret. “We can talk about it later.” Setting him down gently on the bed, he went to take the now slightly damp and surely uncomfortable coat away from the skittish blonde, before he noticed him shake his head, wrapping the fur garment tighter around his body. Arthur was the one confused now. “Are ya sure you wanna keep that? Probably wet, the blankets are warmer.” He shyly nodded his head. “If that’s whatcha want, but take em’ anyway.” He said, wrapping the canvas cloth around his shoulders, bunching up a bedroll and placing it around his bare feet and crossed legs, no doubt numb from the temperature.

Starting a not-so-roaring fire in the chimney, he began to slowly heat up some hot coffee, throwing some peppermints in the metal cup absentmindedly, something he’d picked up from Sean after the Irishman put a few in his pot as a prank. Setting it aside on the little oak bed table to cool, he made his way over to the depressingly dusty cupboards, taking a few cans of peaches (what was left of them. Goddamn Marston) some venison he had stored away, and a metal spoon, before rounding back to his still all too quiet guest.

“Here,” he set the spoon and other goods on the bedside table, “when you feel like eatin’, have at it. But you need to drink this beforehand, so you’ll warm up a little.” The tin mug was hot enough to hold without burning skin, he checked, as he brought the cup over to the other man’s stiff-fingered hands. “Don’t drink it too fast, you’ll burn yourself.” And finally, with a sigh and a pop of his joints, he sat down to tend to the flames.

Every so often he would hear tiny sips from the bed beside him, but even that couldn’t interrupt the peace that settled over his body. He knew it was selfish to say, but this was taxing even on himself. He was expecting some kind of simple search and rescue mission, having to deal with Micah’s annoying snark or bad attitude. But the silence from the other worried him. And so did his dilemma. He worried about what exactly those O’driscoll boys had done to him, how far they had taken the torment. They’d already stripped him bare, forced him to show his secret to them, likely harassing him. He just prayed they didn’t take it too far, though with how shaken Micah seemed, it pained him to admit that it wouldn’t surprise him.

The clang of a spoon hitting the floorboards brought him out of the hypnotising flames. Micah had reached for the spoon, clearly having dropped it. But instead of going to pick it back up, his legs were closed tight, his eyes clamped shut, and when he reopened them he looked as wildly terrified as he had out in the forest.

Arthur rushed up immediately, “Hey,” he put his hand carefully on his shoulder, “everything alright? I can go get those supplies now if you’re ok-” his voice got lost in his throat when he noticed the warm and fresh blood on the sheets, almost getting on his coat, little droplets swiftly turning into hefty crimson stains. And with the way Micah was shifting in obvious discomfort, face red with embarrassment, on the verge of mortified tears, the problem clicked together in his head. Instead of stammering like a fool however, Arthur just sighed in empathy for the man.

Gentle as he imagined he could, "It's ok, don't cry." He rubbed gentle and slow into his shoulders, soothing the borderline sobbing man. "It's ok." He could hear little hiccups from his lips, see hot and shameful tears run down sullied cheeks, and couldn't hold back. He leaned forward, before letting his gloved hand cup one of those cheeks, wiping away the salty tears with his thumb. For a moment he did nothing but let that hand linger, admiring how those blue eyes shone with what may have been appreciation. "I'm gonna go into town, get you some bandages, find some rags or pads for you. Just," he offered a reassuring smile when he saw the other shrink further into his fur coat at the word pads, "make sure you eat, ok? I know you're probably achin' like hell, but I didn't see you eat when you left, so I know you need it.”

The floorboards groaned underneath his boots as he nearly speed-walked to the door, hoping to get there and back soon as he could. Micah, still seated on the bed and uncomfortable with the steady flow dribbling out of him, felt that familiar cold return without the hand on his cheek.


	2. Just a Thought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short chapter I know

The coffee held a minty quality that made his throat clear up, warming him and leaving a pleasant tingle in his esophagus, bringing some relief to his asthma. The rickety log walls blocked away the colder breeze outside, the small fire making the room nice and pleasant. His tired eyes meandered over to the door of the small cabin, his mind wandering to questions of when Arthur would be back. He hadn’t expected how kind he was being. The most he could’ve hoped for was a silent ride back to Horseshoe, with himself still stark naked and being handed to Dutch like tainted goods, likely thrown out of the gang altogether.

But no. No, instead, he’d given him his coat, bothered to preserve his privacy amongst the other gang members, offered up his safehouse, his food, ventured out to bring back bandages (and pads, though he still cringed at the word). This was beyond what he had expected of him, he’d learned quick and hard that he wasn’t welcome almost anywhere or to anyone, not even his own brother. And usually that suited him fine, he didn’t need no one. Though, he’d be lying to himself if the caring nature of his newfound friend didn’t make his chest feel odd and warm. The horrible, coppery, river-like stream of blood flooding out of him pulled him out of those thoughts, making him recall his “meeting” with the O’driscolls. 

He’d been mulling it over for a long time, trying to get Dutch to make peace with the opposing gang. Dutch just shrugged him off, giving him a warning that if he tried, if he got caught and ratted everyone out- “I’ll hang you from the rafters myself.” He went out anyway, finding and torturing on of Colm’s older boys, telling the senile bastard that he’d break his knees if he didn’t go get Colm to arrange a little get together.

A few strings pulled, a few “persuasions” made, and he’d gotten himself a place and a time. It all seemed fine in his mind, he was quick on the draw, and they’d negotiated that only two would be there. Nothing to worry about, and with something solid to bring back to Dutch, what harm could’ve come? 

But the second he got there, behind the ratty shack they’d agreed to deal with each other behind in the godawful cold, he already suspected a trap. He’d barely gotten off Baylock before two more came up and wrestled him to the ground, pinning his shoulders and the bottoms of his knees against the snow. They’d kicked his ribs a few times, stroking their egos at having caught one of Dutch Van Der Linde’s lap dogs, before getting truly cocky and undressing him. He’d fought of course, snarled like a dog and hissed and spit like a pissy cat, managing to bite one of their fingers off. But the wind was knocked out of him when the butt of a rifle slammed into his temple.

He wished he’d been unconscious, played possum, stayed dead in the cold. The degenerates, four of them, leered at him. He was fully naked, dizzy, the whole world a bit blurry around the edges, but he could feel the looks they threw at him. Disgust, shock, predatory. One, he remembered, came up to grope at him, and he felt pure terror in his guts when he couldn’t fight back at the filthy hand now gripping his chest almost bruisingly, slimy voice making all kinds of remarks about how appalling an existence he was. One of the boys, a much younger one, pulled the creep off. His legs felt too wobbly, like a newborn foal, to run away, and that option was made impossible by another slam to his head.

His stomach turned itself inside out at the sour memory, feeling like he may puke.

He’d kicked and screamed the whole way but those boys hidden behind the shack weren’t small and weak like the other two, and combined they had more than enough power to pin him to the pine tree, tie him up after hitting his head one more time. And when he felt the shrill sting of ice cold water hit his already freezing body, he knew he was done. They had him, taunted him, made threats he knew they were too repulsed by him to go through with. Words he’d hoped to never hear again. Before then, crying had never been a thing he’d done in the face of such failure, just turned heel and paid it no mind, or shot it all to hell, one or the two. But with all the things they said, all the threats they made, he couldn’t hold himself back. And it had been a mistake, since they only tormented him more over it.

He'd never really believed in luck before, but having Arthur Morgan do all this for him? All the niceties, all the chivalry, the sheer amount of patience he was showing for him despite how much he clearly hated him? It was like he'd been playing the world's most high-stakes game of Russian Roulette.

Another glob of congealed blood slithered it’s way out of him, making an even bigger mess of the mattress underneath. He grinded his teeth together, feeling that monthly ache deep within his abdomen, like claws ripping through the muscles, like a hand squeezing his spine. Taking a deep breath in, he let out a long sigh. It just had to be today. He kept a very tight schedule on it, to make sure no one knew, so that instead of doing what Arthur was doing right now and buying a bunch of products all at once, he could do it gradually, inconspicuously. But no, oh no, it was a day early. His entire reproductive system had gone completely into overdrive it seemed, he couldn’t recall the last time it had been this heavy.

He popped the tin of peaches open, slurping some into his mouth, getting some of the sticky juice on his scarred chin. He fiddled with the spoon, flipping it through his fingers almost like the handle of his revolvers. He hadn’t a clue where they were, probably frozen somewhere or thrown in a lake, maybe even sold off to a local fence already. When he lost them in Strawberry, it felt like losing a part of himself, his identity, even if it was a part he loathed deep down. Now was the same.

Why did Morgan feel such a need to help? The fool had been doing it a lot lately, helping out strangers that passed him by, giving money to those hobos on the streets. How it came so naturally to him, he didn’t know, he thought to himself as he slurped another peach slice. It came so easy to him, like it was effortless, his caring nature. His chest warmed up again at the way Arthur had carried him, the way he’d held his cheek with his strong hands. On some level he was ashamed to have exposed himself so deeply to the man. What business of his was it that Micah had gotten a little emotional, he could’ve just ignored it and taken him back to camp. He wished in a way that he had so that he didn’t have to grapple with all these… developments.

A light knock at the door nearly made him throw the half-full can across the room.


	3. Valentine (?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I sound like a boogie2988 clone with all this apologizing, but I wanna make it clear that I'm not trying to peddle Micah as any sort of representation in this little romp of mine, I just thought it would be interesting with his character. anyway! on to chapter 3

He’d made a beeline to the little livestock town, dust kicked up around him the whole way there, dirt flying into his hair, Montana huffing and chuffing like a freight train by the time he’d gotten there. He patted her mane, gave her an apple or two, hushed her with a “you’re okay, girl” and tried to sort out who was more likely to carry the things he needed. He couldn't remember Tilly or the other women saying where they got such things, not even Grimshaw had made any remarks. He knew he’d never seen anything even remotely like that in the general stores, they didn’t even carry bandages. He’d have to find someplace to get em’, He didn’t want Micah going back to the group bleeding like he was, that would only cause more suspicion, more threat of discovery.

The town was a little quieter than usual around him. Less screaming drunks and angered wives of screaming drunks, less people seated in front of the stores and passing by the Inn’s windows. On the muddy, sludgy road, he could see a few young girls heading out in what must’ve been their best dresses, mother’s dragging them along or cradling them in their arms up the wooden steps of the church. He cocked his head a bit, then laughed silently to himself. ‘It’s Sunday ya idiot, what else do ya think would be happening.’ Fingers crossed, he led himself up to the doctor’s office, reciting how exactly he was going to ask about what he needed.

Hopefully the “my wife forgot” excuse would pass without much questioning. He just prayed his acting skills would at least live up to a quarter of Hosea’s, otherwise the bounty on his head may have to rise a few digits. 

Putting on his best concerned husband look, he creaked open the doctor’s office door, spotting the wiry man sitting across the doorway. “Can I help you?” A nervous, mousy voice came out of the elderly man. “Well doctor, I’m needin’ some supplies for a friend of mine, dumbass got himself shot just out by the train tracks. And, my wife, she uh… well, she forgot to stock up for the monthly…” He pushed himself to sound nervous, though it was less than convincing. He hoped the doctor could catch on, otherwise this would only get more uncomfortable. 

The old man’s graying eyebrows rose, nodding his head in understanding. “Ah! Yes, I see… well mister, you’re in luck-” He hobbled across the room on his cane, crooked and spindly in stature. It took him a good 20 seconds to make the short distance from the desk chair to what was likely the storage room. Arthur shifted on his feet, slightly awkward with how long this was taking. Sounds of rummaging came from the small back room, before he heard an “Ah-ha!”

The man popped out holding a small box, maybe a little bigger than his hand, wrapped in brown paper and neatly tied with string. “Now this friend of yours,” the elderly man shook a little as he hobbled on his cane, “he ain’t in need of dire medical help, is he?” Arthur’s head perked back up again at the question, and gave a fake smile. “No, no, nothin’ I can’t handle.” He took it, a little too quickly, and shilled out 4.50 to the fella. “Thank you, sir, and-and if I were you, I wouldn’t let any of those fella’s by the saloon see ya with that.” He pushed his glasses up, “They tend to be a little hot-headed.” Arthur waved as he strode out the door, whistling for Montana down the road. 

“Let’s go, girl.” He mounted quickly, shoving the box in his satchel, and turned tail south. The mud made wet squelching noises as he pushed the horse as hard as he could, jet black mane nearly hitting him in the face with the speed of it. His mind, left idle, began to think of Micah again. The snarky little outlaw better have drunken that coffee he gave him, hopefully he ate the food too. He’d looked so pale, like the energy had been zapped from his very being. He’d probably have to give him more blankets, maybe a quilt too… he wasn’t really sure what else he could do. He’d try as hard as he could to keep Micah under wraps when he brought him back to the gang, have to get him some new clothes definitely. Pine trees began to blend together, a familiar and telltale sight that he was nearing the cabin.

The whinnying of horses-horses that were not his-made him stop Montana to a halt.

“Ya thinkin’ he’s in there?” A skinny man whispered, tall and lanky, not too unlike Kieran. The other, a shorter and much stockier fella with a wide brimmed hat, scolded him, though too quiet for Arthur to hear, but it made the skinny one shut right up. 

Guns drawn and voice booming across the distance, Arthur kicked the steed into high gear, making a beeline for the two.

“Hey!” He bellowed, firing as many shots as he could near the doorway, managing to hit the skinny one in the chest while the other O’driscoll slipped into the building. “Damnit!” he hissed, dismounting Montana so quickly he nearly tripped and fell. His legs went on autopilot, rushing to the door as fast as his boots could carry him. Crashes rang from the house, sounds of struggling. He was bursting like divine wind through the doorway, to be met with the sight of Micah in a choke hold, at gunpoint, oversized coat falling off his shoulders, blonde hair mussed up from the brief fight that had gone down, and a peach can splattered all over the floor.

“You-” his pistol aimed directly for the man’s head, right between the beady, dark eyes. “You put him down. Right. Now.” His voice remained steady, edging into a dangerous growl deep in his chest. Shoving his gun harder against the blonde’s head, he didn’t back down from Arthur’s threatening demeanor. “You, and your boys, you think this was gonna be easy?” Micah’s face began to turn red, mouth open trying to catch air. “You n’ Dutch think you was gonna try and swindle Colm?” The arm tightened around Micah’s throat, a heavy wheeze escaped him. “You, Dutch, and- and whatever the hell this thing is- you thought you were gonna get away?!” The man’s finger began to pressure the trigger of the worn six-shooter “You thought-” 

A bang like the crack of lightning tore through the room, and the asshole slumped to the floor, a perfect hole between his eyes, taking Micah down with him as he coughed and hacked. “Ah, shit-” Arthur rushed over boots making clumsy thuds across the floorboard, “You alright?” he soothed, patting the man’s back and brushing the hair out of his face. He cursed himself, he was a fuckin’ moron for not leaving him here with a weapon of some sort. “Shit, I’m sorry, I-I shoulda left ya something, a pistol if anything.” He lifted him to his bare feet, still gently patting his back to help with the coughing fit. “Locked the damn door or-or somethin’” He scolded himself.

Before he could apologise for the third time, a word left Micah’s lips, quiet and strained through the weak coughs, “Why?”

It was his turn to be confused. He raised an eyebrow, “Whaddya mean why?” Micah shook his head, seemingly frustrated with his state: coughing himself hoarse, freezing, period running down his leg, nearly naked, and still needing (and possibly wanting) the help of Mr. Morgan. “Why… why do you… why help me?” He may have been angry, this feeling was of a kind he wasn’t familiar with, it felt foriegn and weighted against his chest. “I-I ain’t, I ain’t a good person, Morgan- you ain’t stupid.” He accused weakly, tidbits of strength coming back to him enough to fully lean on the bigger man now. His eyebrows knitted together in agitation, he couldn’t place it in words what he wanted to say, and it was killing him. “You coulda left me back there, and no one woulda been any the wiser.” He almost sounded somber, the fact pained him to dwell on. “I just don’t- why would-”Tears began to blur his vision again, and through his increasingly heavy breaths, he felt that familiar warmth of a gloved hand on his cheek, wiping away his spilt sorrows. He tried to speak, but sobs racked him hard, unintelligible noises from him. It was like a monumental dam that finally broke, like a tree cut down to the final inch had fallen over, like a tsunami that swallowed him whole.

Arthur could do nothing, just hold the smaller man to his chest, trying to calm him from his breakdown. He’d never thought Micah was capable of such emotion, as the blonde gripped his coat and sobbed open and raw into the fur, himself carefully running his fingers through his hair. He buried his nose into the dirty locks, murmuring gentle reassurances, only growing more alarmed when he felt how hard the man was heaving against his chest. “Micah, hey-” he rubbed his back in circles, leaning down to wrap his arms around the other’s panicked ribcage. “Breathe, Micah, breathe.” He kept his voice as calm as he could, surprising himself with how steady it sounded. He could practically feel the man’s heart hammering in his chest, the blind terror his body was hurtling into every passing second. He brought his hands up slow, predictable, like he was trying not to spook a frightened and cornered animal. 

“Sh, sh, Micah…” He rubbed his thumbs, firmly but softly, across his tear streaked, ruddy cheeks. “It’s okay.” Their eyes met, and he could see how scared the other was, how his pupils had shrunk to pinpricks. “You’ll be okay, Ain’t nothin’ gonna get’cha, I’m right here.” Blue eyes shutting closed, and breathing finally beginning to even out, he leaned into the welcoming touches, a soft noise leaving him. 

They stood there, Arthur cradling his face like it was made of glass, thumbs smoothing out the tears still lazily running down his cheeks. His lungs finally felt normal, like he wasn’t drowning under the pressure of an ocean anymore, but like where he was now. In this scattered room, warming up from the heavy fur coat still slung around his shoulders, Arthur’s hands feeling like pure heaven on his chilly skin. He blinked his eyes open, surprised to see how concerned the bigger man looked, and felt his face warm when he realised how much of a mess he’d made of his coat, the wetness of dried tears and snot on his chest. How long he’d been leaning against him, enjoying the way he used his hands. His teeth cut into his bottom lip. His stomach felt warm and fluttery all of a sudden.

“M’sorry-” “Don’t be.” Arthur shot back quickly, wrapping an arm around the smaller man to lead him to the cot. “Don’t be sorry, Micah. Nothin’ to apologise for.” He helped the man sit on the fur and canvas, nearly forgetting the package he’d left in the first place for. He rummaged in his satchel, pulling out the little box. “Here, It’s got some bandages and such in there too.” He noticed how much Micah seemed to be eyeballing the little package, as if it was a bomb being handed to him. He sighed, a deep kind of abstract sadness taking hold of him. “You don’t gotta be ashamed Micah, I ain’t gonna say nothin’” He began to pick up the fallen blankets, tossing them on the bed, “Just… make sure you use em’, ok? Tell me when you’re done, and I’ll stitch ya up.” He turned his back, and while he heard the box hastily being ripped open, he conjured up whatever excuse he could find to keep his eyes off the man. He tended to the flames of the fireplace, warming his hands.

“Uh-” Micah scratched the back of his neck, trying to avoid any eye contact with his partner. With the box tossed aside, and his… problem area now well taken care of, he tried to steer some conversation into his injuries. “I don’t think there’s much to stitch, just…” He tapped his temple, “they knocked me around pretty good.” It wounded his pride to admit, of course, but there would be no healing without a little pain. 

Arthur moved up to dig the roll of gauze out, the weight of him making the bed squeak as he took a seat beside him. “Well,” he began unspooling the delicate bandage, “I’ll wrap it up, but besides that, you need to rest.” Carefully tilting the blonde’s head, he noticed the lump on the back of his skull. “Don’t think I’ll even need to do that… just lay down, sleep. I’ll watch for more a’those bastards.” He rose to reach for his repeater, stand guard for the night. 

A “thanks” was on the roof of Micah’s mouth, but he couldn’t force it out no matter how hard he tried.


End file.
